Tracker was up and groomed by the time his breakfast arrived at seven. He wasn’t as tired now, his fifth morning with Castile. He didn’t understand it, but he knew it would make his job easier. He’d also had another strange dream, this one more vivid than those of the previous nights. The sharp angles of alpine mountains stood clear in his mind along with the scent of crisp icy air.
He’d started on his plan the day before and it seemed it was already having an effect. He ate at a hurried pace while studying his guards. He didn’t recognize this pair, but he noticed immediately that they didn’t wear the bracelets of Samm’s Slammers. After a few moments thought, he realized the General didn’t fully trust the mercenaries and thought he knew why.
The day before, Tracker had begun his exercises in an empty gym when a troop of men in matching warm-up suits marched in, led by the man he had designated as team leader in the work-outs the day before. Tracker stood with the point of the wooden sword planted on the mat between his feet, stiff and aleart as he watched the men array themselves into a broad phalanx on the mats, facing him. The red-haired man approached Tracker.
”I have brought those of my men that could best use your instruction,” he said. “Would you be willing to teach them?”
”If you wish” he replied bruskly, earning a strange look from the man. “Warm them up while I finish my kata and then we’ll see what they can do.”
Tracker moved through his usual, complex exercise with the sound of the troop’s calls acting as a counterpoint to his own sharp barks during the sword-thrusts. They were watching him and as he moved faster, the men moved slower, until they had come to a complete stop, staring at him. He continued at speed for a few more minutes and then froze.
He stood with the sword vertical before his nose, facing the class as they stood staring. He was breathing hard, nostrils flaring as he tryed not to pant, glaring at them. After a moment, first the red-haired man, then the others, resumed exercising. When they all were back at their training drill, he relaxed and saluted with the sword, going through the cleaning ritual before returning it to its place on the rack.
He walked through the moving arms and flying legs, avoiding them without apparent effort. At one point he stopped in front of a man who seemed to be trying too hard, his movements choppy instead of smooth and relaxed. Tracker took a defensive stance in front of the man and started parrying the mercenary’s thrusts and kicks while simultaneously dodging and ducking those from the man in the next rank. He then started throwing punches in time to the pattern of his sparring partner, so the parries that were part of the routine were actually blocking his blows. It didn’t take long for the light of understanding to come into the man’s eyes, and his motions become more relaxed and natural, his balance more sure, his moves more powerful. Tracker turned his attention to another man.
#
After bolting down the raw beef on the platter the following morning, he stood up and walked out of the cell. He strode swiftly, aggressively, down the driveway towards the main gate of the complex. About halfway to the gate, he suddenly, unexpectedly spun on his left foot and glared at his guards, who were having to run to keep up with him. The guards stumbled to a stop and swung their rifles around to cover him, expecting an escape attempt.
”What’s keeping you?” Tracker snapped. “Is this the kind of troop the General keeps? If you can’t keep up with me, I’ll have someone assigned who can!” He spun back and strode on down to the gate where he confronted the guard. “Get me the Officer of the Day,” he demanded. The guard snatched at the phone on a small shelf at the back of the shack and tapped in a number. A moment later he handed the phone to Tracker.
”O.D.? This is Redd…. That’s right. I’m at the main gate. Send me a couple guards that can keep up with me. These two you assigned to me today are flabby. I need some that are in shape.” He listened for a moment then broke in, “I don’t want them as soon as possible, I want them now! If none of our own people are in shape, send me a couple of Major Samms’ people. At least they try to stay fit. I want them here in five minutes, with or without weapons.” He slammed the receiver down on its cradle and turned to his escort. “Your relief will arrive in five minutes. If they’re not armed, you’re to turn your weapons over to them, then you are relieved.” He turned away and stalked to the back of the security shack to wait for his replacement escort.
An hour later, after hiking two laps around the perimeter of the base at a fast walk, Tracker arrived at the gym with his escorts in tow. He was breathing hard, but at the same time proud of himself for not panting in front of the men who’d fought to keep up with him
He found his students already working out on the mats when he entered. Stalking over to the racks he pulled down the practice sword, gripping it tightly a few inches from either end. He walked slowly out to an unoccupied mat and knelt on the floor, holding the curved wood level with his bowed head as he forced himself to relax and focus. Slowly the blade moved in a graceful arc around his body, seemingly without any guidance. Gradually the pace of the exercise increased, blurring past the shoulders of the still-kneeling fox. Suddenly he gave a great shout and leapt into the air, the wooden katana flashing beneath his feet. What followed then was the most aggressive display of swordsmanship Tracker had given since his defection from Castile eighteen months before, using moves since learned with the Defenders. Barking and yipping with the strokes of the sword, Tracker’s body seemed to move as quickly as the katana itself, leaping and tumbling around the mat as the blade slashed in attack or thrust in parries all around him.
After ten minutes of high-energy swordplay, Tracker slowed to a stop, panting heavily. Kneeling down, he used the simulated act of cleaning the blade as an opportunity to regain his wind. The lack of any other sounds in the gymnasium penetrated his awareness. He raised his head and glared at the mercenaries who stood just off the mat, staring at him in awe. He lifted one lip in a faint snarl. With a start, the red-haired mercenary commanded his troops back into their exercises as though nothing were out of the ordinary.
Tracker forced his ears erect. To make his plan work, he had to out General the General. Continuing to rub his fingers along the polished wood long after his own sword would have been clean, he took a deep breath and laid it down. He liked the mercenaries. They treated him with respect, as an equal, unlike the Castilians, who were both wary and disdainful when he was around. Hh didn’t like what he was about to do, but he had to be aggressive, particularly to the mercenaries, for his plan to work.
Finally he rose to his feet and replaced the sword in the rack. He started working with the soldiers, occasionally pulling one of them out for individual guidance in balance and control. Several times he snapped a sharp rejoinder when one of the men asked him a question, only to immediately clarify the student’s issue.
